The House on Tradd Street

by Karen White

  I heard a door shut and then the sound of Jack’s footsteps coming from the attic and making their way down the hall to the bathroom. I had begun to drift off to sleep when a loud curse jerked me upright and out of the bed. After tossing on my robe and putting on my fuzzy slippers, I threw open my door and ran to the bathroom, a golden line of light showing from underneath the door.

  I knocked loudly. “Jack? Are you all right?”

  “Mmhmphmm.”

  “What?”

  “Mmhmphmm.”

  “If you’re not going to speak English, I’m going to open this door and come in.”

  I heard the door handle turn and then the door opened, allowing me to spot a shirtless Jack with a towel pressed against his face.

  I stepped inside, noticing too late how very nice he looked without his shirt. Even if I couldn’t see his face. “What’s wrong? Did you catch sight of your reflection?”

  My words at least got a reluctant folding down of the towel from the top portion of his face. “I was trying to wash the dust off my face and hands without getting my shirt wet. And now it’s my turn for a question. Would you please tell me why scalding-hot water comes out of your cold-water tap?”

  I eyed the offending sink. “I have no idea and please don’t call it mine. I’ll call a plumber first thing.” I took my time staring at his bare torso since he’d put the towel back over his face. “And I’ll get an estimate on what it would take to add a few bathrooms upstairs so that people don’t have to share. That would really help the market value.” But then I’d miss seeing things like a nice male chest.

  “I’m a seventeen, thirty-six.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, coloring. He’d taken the towel off of his face while I’d been busy staring. I had hoped he hadn’t seen me. I didn’t think his ego needed the stroking.

  “That’s my shirt size. It looked like you were measuring me for a new one.”

  “I wasn’t . . . ,” I said, backing out of the bathroom and stubbing my heel on the doorframe.

  He grinned. “But I’m glad you’re awake. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “That’s the oldest line in the book,” I said, seeing that he was leading me to the guest bedroom.

  “Fine,” he said, not slowing or looking back. “But I thought you might be interested in seeing Louisa’s photo album.”

  That had my attention. Pulling the belt on my robe tighter, I eagerly followed him into the far bedroom at the end of the hall.

  The large leather-bound album sat in the middle of the bed, the cover cracked and peeling as if it had been handled many times. I noticed Jack had placed a sheet beneath it to protect the bedspread from dust, and my estimation of him went up a notch.

  “How do you know it’s hers?” I asked as I approached the book, being careful not to touch it.

  Without saying anything, he reached across me and carefully turned the front cover back. The words were too small for me to read, and I hadn’t brought my reading glasses. I squinted, trying to hide this fact from Jack, but, of course, he caught on right away.

  “I keep on forgetting that you’re older than me, Mellie. Here, let me read them out loud.”

  I stewed in silence as he began to read: To Louisa with all my love, given to you on the occasion of the birth of our first child, Nevin Pinckney Vanderhorst. May these pages, once filled, illustrate the love we have for each other and for our son. A love that will never diminish with the passage of time.

  I love you forever,

  Robert.

  On the first page, facing the dedication, was a sepia-toned wedding photograph of Louisa and Robert, one identical to the framed photo in my bedroom. But this time I looked closer and noticed the roses in her veil and in her bouquet: Louisa roses.

  “Wow,” I said, my voice cracking and my annoyance with Jack forgotten. “It’s dated nineteen twenty-one—nine years before her disappearance. Either this whole thing is a complete lie, or a lot changed in nine years.”

  He stood next to me, as if waiting to see if I would turn the page, but I didn’t. I didn’t move. The temperature in the room had dropped, and I wondered if Jack was aware that I could see his breath now when he spoke.

  “There’re about nine more of these albums—one for each year would be my guess. I left them up in the attic for now. But look what else I found,” he said, turning to an oak captain’s chest at the foot of the bed.

  I turned slowly, feeling the hair on the back of my neck and arms stand on end, alarmed because I didn’t smell the roses.

  He lifted a small, boxy antique camera, its lightness apparent by the way Jack held it in the palm of his hand. “This is a Brownie—the very first handheld camera. It was invented for the everyday person because it was easy to use and only cost a dollar. You told me that Nevin’s mother liked to take photographs of him, so I’m assuming this might have been hers.”

  I reached my hand up to touch the camera but pulled back.

  “Are you all right?” He put the camera back down and shivered. “And something’s wrong with your central air-conditioning. It’s freezing in here.” He reached for the shirt he’d thrown on the bed and began putting it on.

  My voice was stiff. “There isn’t any.”

  He stopped buttoning midway up the shirt. “There isn’t any what?”

  “Central air,” I whispered, barely able to speak. I’d felt the other presence, the non-roses presence. And I’d begun to smell rotting earth and decaying flesh, but I couldn’t seem to find the energy to raise my hand to my nose. I am stronger than you. I am stronger than you.

  Jack was looking at me oddly. “There’s something wrong here, isn’t there? Do you see something?”

  I swallowed, forcing bile down my throat as I saw the distinct shadow of a man begin to solidify behind Jack. “I don’t feel so good,” I bit out through frozen jaws. “Can we go downstairs?”

  His expression turned to one of concern as he moved to take my arm. At that moment something punched me in my back, making the air leave my lungs in a loud whoosh and sending me sprawling facedown on the rug in the hallway. I tasted wool and dust and decay, making me gag.

  “Are you all right?” Jack knelt by my side, peering into my face. “What happened?”

  I tried to sit up and catch my breath at the same time, thankful doing so gave me a little time to think of an answer. Jack pulled me into a sitting position, keeping his arm around my shoulders, which I’m sure I might have appreciated at another time.

  “I tripped.”

  “But you were standing still.”

  “I’m really clumsy,” I said, trying to stand so that I could put more distance between me and the dark shadow that now filled the doorway.

  “Hold on,” Jack said, pressing down on my shoulders. “We need to see if you’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, managing to pull away from him.

  His next words were drowned out by the explosion of sound from something large, heavy, and glass crashing downstairs.

  “Can you stand?” Jack asked, urgently tugging on my hand.

  I tested both feet, then nodded.

  “Let’s go.” He held on to my hand as he pulled me toward the stairs, flipping on the foyer chandelier. We peered over the railing into the foyer and saw nothing except the general dilapidation and neglect we’d grown used to.

  “What in the hell do you think that was?” he asked.

  I shook my head, more afraid than I ever remembered being, and definitely more than I would ever admit. We moved down the stairs, then stood at the bottom, listening.

  “Where do you think that came from?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not sure but I have a good idea.” I led him into the drawing room, my slippered feet crunching on what felt like broken glass. “Flip on the light switch.”

  All we heard was a buzzing sound and a pop, neither of which was accompanied by light.

  Jack quickly switched it off, then followed me as I walked into th
e center of the room, the light from the foyer glinting off hundreds of crystal shards that had erupted all over the Aubusson rug. My foot hit something large and I stopped, then looked down at what I’d kicked and found the supine body of the shattered chandelier lying prostrate on the floor and strongly resembling an octopus carcass with its broken arms and pendants scattered around it. A gaping hole in the center of the ceiling medallion spewed out electrical wires, and the plaster surrounding it appeared to be contemplating a suicide leap.

  Jack stood beside me, looking at the wreckage of what had once been merely a shabby drawing room. “Looks like fixing the plumbing isn’t going to be your next priority.”

  I was about to make a glib comment when the grandfather clock began to chime the midnight hour. Jack crunched over to the end table, where he’d left his camera, and took a picture of the face of the clock, the flash illuminating the room and the slight figure of a woman standing by the growth chart. And then the room was dark again, leaving only the strong scent of roses.

  CHAPTER 11

  I sat at my desk hunched over approximately a dozen architecture textbooks that Sophie had been kind enough to lend to me. I stared bleary-eyed at yet another example of an Adamesque fireplace mantel, this one complete with pilasters and floral and swag decorations. Or were they called incised wood carvings and stucco relief decorations with floral sprays?

  Closing my eyes, I leaned forward until my forehead rested on the detailed illustrations of a Federal-style pediment and a Georgian-style pediment, both of which looked identical to me despite the fact that I had just spent the last forty-five minutes studying them and the other sticky-note-marked pages of Sophie’s books. Granted, I knew enough of vague lingo to sell an old house to unsuspecting future owners, but apparently not nearly enough to actually restore one. And somehow my blank stare in response to Sophie’s instructions about how to remove layers of paint from the upstairs drawing room mantel (involving really tiny brushes and razors) had made her put on her teacher persona and tell me I had to learn the importance and rarity of what was in the house before I’d be allowed near anything with a brush, much less a razor.

  Besides, she explained, I couldn’t look like a fool if I ever had to go before the dreaded Board of Architectural Review during the restoration process. Being ignorant could make the difference between a new roof or living with patchwork.

  Adding insult to injury, I reached for my latte cup only to find it empty. So was the bag of doughnuts sitting next to it. I sat up and began to dig beneath the pile of books to find my phone and ask Nancy if she’d made the coffee yet. I hadn’t seen her when I’d come in, but I knew she was in the building because I’d spotted her hybrid SUV in the parking lot with the “Have You Hugged Your Clubs Today?” bumper sticker.

  Before I had the chance to push the button, my phone rang. I picked it up. “Hi, Nancy.”

  “Good morning, Miss Middleton. You have a visitor.”

  I frowned into the receiver. “Nancy? Why are you acting like a receptionist is supposed to? It’s weird.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have him wait a few moments while you finish with your client.”

  “What’s going on, Nancy? Is it Jack?”

  She waited a few moments while I presumed the visitor made his way to the waiting area. Then I had to press my ear to the receiver to hear her because she was now whispering. “It’s him. That Marc guy who keeps calling and who never leaves a return number. He’s here and he wants to see you. And his last name’s Longo.”

  I sat up straighter. Going on Jack’s hunch that there were no coincidences, he and I had tried to find out more about Marc Longo, and had even spent time in a coffee shop outside where his office supposedly was to get a glimpse of him, but the elusive Mr. Longo apparently didn’t want to be found.

  “So why are you whispering?”

  There was a slight pause. “Wait until you see him. He doesn’t seem the type to put up with anything bordering on casual.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Don’t send him back, okay? I’ll come up and get him.”

  I used the small hand mirror in my drawer while I wiped off any stray doughnut crumbs or powdered sugar and applied fresh lipstick before heading up to the waiting area. I’d worn my new aqua silk Elie Tahari suit with knockout Manolo Blahnik pumps and knew I looked good and certainly ready to meet a guy whose appearance was enough to make Nancy Flaherty nervous.

  Nancy raised her eyebrows as I rounded the reception desk and headed toward the bank of sofas and tables arranged around the front bay window. Marc Longo was busy typing something into his BlackBerry but looked up and stood as I entered.

  He was very tall, with dark hair and eyes; he wore a custom-made suit complete with French cuffs and Gucci loafers. Definitely GQ material, and if this had been a social setting, I would have stumbled over my own name during the introduction and tripped over my Manolos. Drooling would probably be added to the equation. But this was business, and I slid my businesswoman persona on like a suit and extended my hand.

  “Mr. Longo? I’m Melanie Middleton. What can I do for you?”

  His handshake was firm, his skin soft, making me think he was probably the type of guy who got manicures. Not necessarily a bad thing, but I did have a problem with guys who had softer hands than I did.

  “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment.” He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth set off nicely by his tanned skin. “I’d like to talk with you about real estate. I’ve heard you’re the best.”

  I blushed under his flattering stare. “I don’t know if I’m the best, but I do work very hard for my clients. Why don’t we go back to my office so we can talk more?” I turned to Nancy. “Could you please bring us coffee? And hold my calls.”

  “Yes, Miss Middleton,” she said, raising her eyebrow and smirking when she thought Mr. Longo wasn’t looking.

  I led the way and felt his eyes on my back, making me self-conscious but grateful I’d worn my SPANX. When Sophie gave me grief when she found out I wore them, I’d scoffed at her, reminding her that even skinny girls had visible panty lines.

  I sat down at my desk and drew out a blank paper pad and indicated for my visitor to sit at the chair on the other side of my desk. I noticed his interest in my architecture books as he sat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Longo?”

  “Please,” he said, leaning forward, “call me Marc.”

  “All right, Marc.” I smiled, not sure why he was making me nervous. Maybe it was because his dark eyes never left my face. Or because he was probably the most gorgeous man I’d ever been this close to with the exception of pictures in a magazine. Or maybe it was because of his last name and possible connection to the man who might have been behind Louisa’s disappearance. Either way, I was completely unnerved, and I had to keep reminding myself that I was a successful businesswoman. “What can I do for you?”

  He sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving my face. “I’d like to make an investment in residential real estate.”

  I felt the usual excitement rise at the scent of a hot prospect. I was already tallying up in my head the list of high-end new construction on Daniel Island and Isle of Palms that I would show him. I blinked, realizing I’d misunderstood the last part of his sentence. “Excuse me?”

  “I said that I’m especially interested in historical real estate.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. From his high-end clothing style and apparent self-confidence, he’d struck me as the sort of person who wanted sleek, new, and modern. Lots of stainless steel and white walls. Like my own condo.

  “You sound surprised.”

  I smiled to hide my embarrassment. “It’s just, well, you don’t seem the type.”

  “I see.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “In what way?”

  I felt my leg bouncing furiously under my desk, and I willed it to stop. “Well, for starters, you’re single.”

  He lifted a dark eyebrow.


  I blushed a little, wondering why I’d blurted out that little tidbit and trying to find a way out of the hole I seemed to be digging for myself. “I noticed that you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

  He smiled a warm and engaging smile. “Not every married man wears one. What else?”

  I cringed. Even I knew lots of married men who didn’t wear rings. “Well, your clothes made me think that you might lean more to . . . contemporary tastes, I guess. Like a sweeping loft space or a glass-walled house on the water.”

  His fingers tapped against one another on opposing hands. “But I already have those. I wanted something different.”

  “But . . .” I stopped, confused now but unable to stop digging.

  “But what?” he countered.

  “You’re obviously a successful man, so you’ve probably made some good decisions in the past regarding investments. Which, to be honest, just boggles my mind as to why on earth . . .”

  “Go on.” He seemed amused. Almost as if he knew what I was about to say.

  I took a deep breath, unable to stop myself. “Why on earth you’d want to spend quite a lot of money on an historical house that will continue to require more and more funds just toward upkeep. They will take their toll on you physically and mentally, and no matter how much care and money you throw at them, you could still end up with a hole in your roof and a termite infestation.”